Rain

I leave my shirt on
in the rain.
No hounds herd
me to the surf.
Here…this denim shirt
carries no secret
messages. It’s just
rain. Someone called
me a teacher.
I wonder
how the cats are.
The frog is a symbol
of luck in Japan.
In China, it’s the bat.
A black cat
made of wood,
left paw raised,
sits on my shelf.
Lucky as well. It’s said
he waved
at the Buddha
who turned
back to look.
But it’s only rain.
This is a cafeteria,
a solitary ride,
a stale beer,
a piece of cinnamon gum,
and rain that’s still
only rain. The dog
is a symbol of luck…
I am gray enough
to start turning red.
Rain isn’t hard.
I’m in the library
horrified by Frost
and his shattered glass
teeth—sharpened
rain spilled across the table
like sharpened rain.
If I chew on love,
my mouth spits rain
that is only rain.

Poet, teacher, and shiftless layabout, J.T. Williams lives in Norfolk, Virginia with a possessive feline named Bonny. His poems have appeared in Abbey, Blue Collar Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Stray Dog and other publications. His most recent collection, Decked, was published last year by All Nations Press.